


We Made America

by gakorogirl



Category: I Made America (Web Series)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gakorogirl/pseuds/gakorogirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>((On hiatus right now~))</p><p>My concepts, episode by episode, for Season 2 of I Made America! Prominently featuring Madison and Hamilton. This is my first fic with these characters, so I really hope I have everyone in-character okay. I love reviews! :D And if you for some reason haven't watched I Made America you need to watch it immediately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fog and Waffles

**Author's Note:**

> In which Madison sends a message and Hamilton makes breakfast.

Everything was foggy and jumbled, always. The present- or the future, maybe- the future-even-further-ahead, the past (his present), and the past-further-back-from-that. Madison could only see them through a cloud, and they changed, right in front of him. To say nothing of the voices. **  
**

“He’s being quiet now,” said a familiar voice, grumpily. Madison blinked and made out a face. The face frightened him, and he startled back against the seat. He pressed his head against the leather and closed his eyes.

Another voice, one he didn’t know, came from the right. “Thank god,” growled the voice. This one was deeper. It reminded Madison of- no, he couldn’t tell. He wasn’t sure. Someone from the past/present, he was sure of that.

Madison’s vision blurred, and he was in a carriage. Not the future/present kind, the metal-and-leather ones that smelled of smoke and noise. The real kind. Horses.

“Horses,” he said, or tried to say. It came out as a mumble through the tape over his mouth. Why did he have tape over his mouth? He was on a drive, he was on a drive around the plantation in-

“-through Virginia,” said a voice that wasn’t his own. Virginia. Virginia.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked the familiar voice, and suddenly Madison was back in the apartment he’d been trapped in with the other founders, and he had a name for the voice.

“Fishwife,” he mumbled through the gag. Someone struck him, snapping his head to the side, and his vision blurred and cleared again. His cheek burned, and he blinked a few times as he focused on the frightening face of the fishwife-handler. The man’s dark eyes were very cold, and his lip was curling. Angry, thought Madison, and he slid sideways on the seat a little, to get out of range of the fishwife-handler’s next strike.

“I can still understand you, you know,” fishwife-handler snapped. The half-familiar voice, the deep growly one, said something to fishwife-handler. It was something about looking at the road. Madison thought about how Jefferson and Hamilton had once tried to drive one of these carriages, and he barely muffled a laugh. His vision began to blur again. He hoped he was going to see Dolley this time- and then voices snapped him back into the future/present.

Fishwife-handler sighed deeply. “What was the plan again?” he asked growl-voice, and growl-voice answered,

“I said, turn at the next exit, that’ll take us to D.C. around the worst of the traffic. If we drive through Virginia overnight, we should make it there early tomorrow morning.”

_You’re in Virginia,_ said Hamilton’s voice. _You’re home. You’re home._

And with a noise so soft it was imperceptible to the men sitting in the front seats, James Madison resurfaced out of the fog. And he twisted his bound hands, working away at the silvery tape around them. No use. He was caught in a carriage, he thought. The British? They wouldn’t have attacked so soon after-

He leaned forwards, and caught a glimpse of a square device-

_phone_ , hissed the part of him that was still holding onto the future/present. Madison whimpered slightly as memories cascaded back into his brain, like a drowning drowning-

NO, he thought, and the thought cut through the babble and the shifting, dreamlike images that filled his brain. He focused on the phone. He focused on the phone. He leaned forwards.

“It’s this exit,” said growl-voice.

“No,” argued fishwife-handler, “I’m sure it’s the next one, that’s what the GPS says-”

“And I say it’s this one!”

Fishwife-handler made a snarling noise that reminded Madison of Jefferson when he was angry (no no don’t think of Jefferson, you have to escape, the British- wait, that’s not right, not the British- but they might as well be, whispers a tiny voice, so you think of them as the British because that will make everything easier)

“I’m in charge here,” hissed fishwife-handler. As they argued, Madison leaned forwards. He caught the phone with the tips of his fingers and fumbled it awkwardly into his lap. It turned on as he touched it, and he cautiously pecked at the screen with the tip of a finger.

* * *

Hamilton’s phone started to ring, and he swore softly as he tried to silence it. “Sorry,” he muttered with a grimace.

“Do you need to check that?” Abby asked, at the same time Adams said,

“Don’t check your phone at breakfast, Hamilton. It’s not proper.”

Suddenly, there was a muted buzzing from Adams’ pocket, and Hamilton badly stifled a grin.

“Don’t check-”

“I _know_.”

“So,” said Hamilton conversationally to Abby, “You- you are friends with Mindy, are you not?”

From the other room, Franklin groaned loudly. “Stop that!” he shouted at Hamilton, who ignored him. Abby shrugged.

“I mean, we’ve talked once or twice,” she said. “Mostly when I come over here to visit John.” She took another bite of waffle. “This is really good, you know that?” she told Hamilton.

“Thank you,” Hamilton said politely. He raised his voice to ensure that Franklin could hear it from the other room. “Most of the others don’t _cook_ much for _breakfast_ ,” he called.

Franklin appeared around the corner with a pop-tart in his mouth and what looked like a miniature tower in one hand. In his other hand, he held a phone. For a moment, Hamilton thought Franklin was going to throw- well, either the phone or the tower at him, but instead Franklin crossed the kitchen in two long strides and shoved the phone in Hamilton’s face.

“What is it, Franklin?” Adams asked, confused, and Franklin said something unintelligible around a mouthful of pop-tart. Hamilton leaned back to get a better view of the screen, and his eyes widened.

He jumped up, knocking over his chair, and pulled his own phone out of his pocket.

Adams, in the background, said, “Abby and I had best be on our way-”

“Stop. Don’t move,” said Hamilton tersely. He realized his hands were shaking. Across the table, Adams unlocked his own phone (a complicated pattern that none of the other founders, except perhaps Franklin, had yet been able to decipher) and clapped a hand to his mouth.

_trapped in car. going dc._

_madison._


	2. Multiple Directions At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing except One Direction ever plays, and Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson are prevented from killing each other by nothing short of a miracle (and Washington.)

“Jefferson! JEFFERSON!” shouted Hamilton, pounding on their neighbors’ door. Doors down the hallway cracked open, looking for the source of the noise.

“I think someone’s… here for you,” said one of Jefferson’s band mates from the other side of the door. Hamilton kept hitting the door until it slowly opened, and he barely avoided punching Jefferson in the face.

Jefferson frowned. “Is this important?” he asked.

“Yes. Put down the guitar. Washington has called a meeting.”

“That doesn’t sound very im-”

“Have you checked your phone messages recently?”

Jefferson narrowed his eyes and unlocked his phone (without attempting to hide the passcode- no doubt because he was already aware that Hamilton knew almost everyone’s.) He slowly paled and looked up at Hamilton.

“On my way.”

Hamilton didn’t wait another second and ran back down the corridor, bursting into the living room. Abby was still there, sitting beside Adams and looking at something on a computer, with Franklin leaning over the back of the couch to get a glimpse of the screen. “What’s going on?” asked Hamilton, confused.

“I put John’s speech on youtube,” said Abby. “You guys went _viral.”_

“That’s a good thing,” added Adams.

“Really?” Hamilton asked, trying to look around Franklin at the computer. He shook his head. _We don’t have time for this._ “Where’s Washington?”

“Here,” said Washington, coming in the door. Jefferson trailed in behind him. “What do we know?”

“Madison is still with the handler and that thug, or at least we assume so,” said Franklin. He tapped Abby’s shoulder. “May I borrow this?”

“Oh- sure,” she said.

“So. Presumably, Madison has just now been able to contact us, either because he has been restrained, or because his mind has been… lost in time.” Franklin pecked at the keyboard, frowning. “There’s a major road closure on the direct route to D.C., and to go around that I assume they would circle through West Virginia-”

“ _West_ Virginia?” asked Washington, and Franklin nodded.

“Virginia split-” he typed in a query, squinting at the brightness- “in 1863. Over slavery, I think.”

“So they’re going through _West_ Virginia,” said Hamilton. “Perhaps the name snapped Madison back to the present?”

Nodding, Franklin returned to the map.

“Is there any way for us to catch up?” asked Jefferson.

“Maybe if you took a plane,” suggested Abby, but Adams shook his head.

“Too expensive. We’ll have to drive and catch them at the capital. Franklin, how long is the journey?”

“Twelve hours, if we take the same route that Madison is on. But if we were to take the most direct route, we can be there in just over ten.”

Washington nodded decisively. “We must leave at once,” he said, then looked at Hamilton. “In case of a fight, it would be best to have some kind of weaponry.”

Hamilton smiled slightly. “I can arrange that.” He stood and vanished into his room, and there was a loud clattering noise.

“I hope he set off one of those infernal traps,” muttered Jefferson.

“We do have a van,” said Adams. “The one we were using for my campaign. It’s not ideal, but it should get us to D.C. and- hopefully- back.”

“That’s the van with your face painted on the side, isn’t it,” said Franklin, in a tone that was more of a statement than a question. “I call shotgun.”

“As long as I don’t have to sit in the back,” said Jefferson. Hamilton staggered out of his room with an armload of firearms and dumped them across the table.

“Hamilton, where-” started Adams, and then shook his head and sighed, exasperated. “I don’t need to know.” He picked up a pistol and turned it in his hands. “We’re keeping these in that compartment under the floor,” he added. “Also, I’m driving.”

 

Really, it wasn’t a bad plan. Until Hamilton got bored.

“Jefferson,” he whispered, loudly enough for everyone else to hear. Franklin turned up the radio, blasting a pop song that had played at least _five times_ within the past hour. Frowning, Adams reached across and turned it back down.

“Really, Franklin, can you play anything _besides_ One Direction?”

“There’s nothing else on,” said Franklin, and grinned.

“ _Jefferson,”_ whispered Hamilton, leaning across the gap between the seats. Jefferson closed his eyes and kept strumming his guitar, fiddling with the tuning pegs.

There was a moment of silence before Hamilton tore out a page of his notebook.

“Hamilton,” said Adams warningly as Hamilton wadded up the page and carefully tossed it to hit Jefferson’s nose.

Jefferson glared and set down his guitar, propping it against Franklin’s seat. “What _is it_?” he snapped.

“I’m bored.”

“It’s no fault of mine,” shot back Jefferson.

Adams muttered, “Turn the music up again.”

“We could have a debate about something,” said Hamilton hopefully.

“Five dollars on Hamilton,” Franklin said from the front seat as he flicked through the channels. (the station they had been listening to had gone to a commercial break.) He paused for a moment, listening, and left the radio on _Drive By._

“Well, what would we be debating about?” asked Jefferson, picking up the guitar again. Hamilton rolled his eyes.

“That guitar is _perfectly in tune,_ not that anyone can hear it over Franklin’s music.”

Washington spoke from the back seat, sounding exhausted. “It’s bad enough when the two of you fight over something worthwhile,” he said.

“I thought you were asleep,” started Hamilton.

“Not any longer,” Washington muttered, then leaned forwards. “Hamilton. You’re arguing for states’ rights. Jefferson, you’re arguing for centralized government. Go.” He rubbed his forehead and leaned back again as Jefferson and Hamilton sat, stunned.

“At least we can enjoy a moment of silence as those two ponder their sudden reversal,” said Franklin to Adams, who smiled slightly.

“I do not think they’re going to do it,” he said, too softly for Hamilton and Jefferson (now glaring silently at each other across the car) to hear. In the far back, Washington fell asleep.

Franklin turned up the music again, and Adams turned it down. “Really, Franklin, I don’t have anything against One Direction, but I _do_ have something against going prematurely deaf because of your compulsive need to turn up the music.”

“I have something against One Direction,” said Jefferson under his breath from the back seat, and Adams sighed quietly. _This is going to be a long trip._

* * *

 

“Seriously, is there _nothing_ on the radio besides One Direction?” snapped the fishwife-handler as they drove down the highway. It was very late at night, and Madison was having trouble staying awake. The headlights of the cars driving the opposite direction made the rain glow like sparks, sparks sparks and the British burned D.C. and he-

The growl voice said, “Just turn it off. Stop to get a coffee if you’re tired.” He fumbled for his phone and found it missing. “What the hell?”

Madison closed his eyes and slipped back into the fog that was time, and he watched the pictures, of times long past (a sheet of paper dripped with wax, a pen scratching the words of one of the Federalist Papers, he could tell which one if only the words would stop shifting around) and times yet to come (Hamilton is talking about states’ rights, and Madison wondered for a moment if he was coming all the way unraveled) and times that are _now_ but somewhere else (a little girl and her mother watch a computer screen, and John Adams is giving a speech. More and more people gather around the screen, and their mouths are open and stunned.)

“Here it is,” said growl-voice, picking his phone off the floor by Madison’s feet. “I’d say that runt took it, but he’s been out like a light most of the trip.”

The voice bled into a babble of other voices, Dolley, Jefferson, Adams, the frightened whinnying of horses- but this carriage doesn’t have horses, does it- the strumming of a guitar, the deep _boom_ of the Liberty Bell (it’s cracked now, in the future-that-is-present, cracking like time time time, and the cracks run ever closer to where Madison stands in the swirling visions and the unravelling of time time time) and Madison fell back into darkness, hearing himself mutter something about _more than one direction,_ a warning, a warning to Adams?

"Oh, shut up," snapped the fishwife-handler, who had been unable to find any radio stations to his liking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you liked it! :D Unexpectedly ordering two people who like to fight to argue opposite sides is a surprisingly effective way of making both shut up (I use it on my three-year-old siblings all the time. :P)
> 
> Madison's scenes are so fun to write tbh


End file.
